


Stages

by bex_xo



Series: Stages of Us [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Babies, Cousin Incest, Cunnilingus, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Family, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, I can't believe I wrote fluff, R plus L equals J, Resolved Sexual Tension, Romance, The last chapter is all sorts of ooey gooey, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-03-31 06:05:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3967222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bex_xo/pseuds/bex_xo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snippets of Jon and Sansa's relationship shown in different stages of their lives. </p><p>(Half) Sister, Cousin, Friend, Lover, Wife and Mother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. (Half) Sister

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! So normally I'm over in the Sansan fandom but Jon/Sansa has intrigued me recently, so I've been working on this. Quite frankly, I've found it next to impossible to work on my big Sansan fic since this idea popped in my head, so I just need to get this all out. Hopefully it's not completely shit! :)

Once Sansa became aware of that the term “natural brother” meant that Jon was a bastard, she insisted on referring to him only as her  _half-brother_ _ (no lady would use the term bastard) _ . No longer did he receive any of her girlish affection in the same way Robb did, no more hugs or shared dances, or late night trips to sneak into the kitchens for lemoncakes, for Sansa never wanted to be seen as too familiar with someone who was so far below her station. Instead Jon was treated with a cool reserve similar to that of Lady Stark's, only Sansa was more kind than her lady mother, never failing in her attempts to be a gracious and noble lady  _ (at least with anyone other than Arya) _ .

  
Over the years Sansa grew from a beautiful child, to a beautiful young maid, even Jon could notice that. At one-and-ten his sister stunned men with her beauty and charm, and sometimes would even leave him momentarily entranced before he could remember himself _\- Bastard. Half-Brother -_ and who she was to him. While there was no affection between the two, Jon still had a love for Sansa, only it was different from that of his other siblings. More reserved and respectful, nothing like the rough housing or teasing manner he would enjoy with the other Stark children, but it was love none the less.  
  
The coming of King Robert Baratheon brought a change to everything. Their lord father was asked to becoming the King's Hand and Sansa was betrothed to Prince Joffery Baratheon, the hair to the Iron Throne. Jon's place in Winterfell became less and less secure every day, and so he made the decision to take the black and become a man of the Night's Watchlike his Uncle Benjen. This had little effect on Sansa, whose fate was taking her far away from the cold and dreary lands of the North and had seeming little time to spare a thought on her half-brother. 

  
With Jon heading North to the Wall and the Night's Watch, and Sansa heading South to presumably become the future Queen of the Seven Kingdom's, Winterfell was in a flurry of activity. Between their lord father departing with King Robert and his court, Bran's accident and subsequent sleep, and the group leaving with Benjen Stark back to the Wall, any chance to properly say farewell to Sansa was nil. As the future queen, it was unseemly for Sansa to even interact with her half-brother;when Jon ran into Sansa in a rare alone moment while in the halls of the keep, he seized his opportunity.  
  
“Lady Sansa,” Jon said, his look solemn and nodding a bow in her direction. She would be queen someday, and even though he was a bastard, he knew his courtesy's.  
  
“Jon,” Sansa replied, her curtsy impeccable and straight backed. There was a coolness in her voice and eyes that cued him into believing he should not be wasting her time, and that whatever he wanted to say, he needed to say it now.  
  
“I wish you luck, sister. The Seven Kingdoms shall be quite lucky to have a queen as courteous and ladylike as you someday. May your marriage to Prince Joffrey be everything you've ever dreamed for.”  
  
Sansa paused for a moment, clearly taken back by the sincerity in Jon’s word, before gathering herself and smiling graciously.  
  
“Thank you, half-brother. Your words are kind. I hope you achieve glory at the Wall, mayhap you shall become First Ranger after Uncle Benjen, or even Lord Commander someday.”  
  
“I shall do my best, my lady.”

 


	2. Cousin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Though he feels more Stark than anything, and their words ring true to him, he's also discovered his ability to live up to the words of his fathers house (Fire and Blood is how the Others are defeated after all.) A trueTargaryan is what they call him now, among other things.
> 
> Azor Ahai, The Prince That Was Promised, Dragonrider, Nephew, Cousin (He can't help but think the last one is the sweetest sound he'll ever hear.)

 

The truth of his identity came out in a most bizarre manner. First was his resurrection by the red priestess Melisandre, next were the whispers of trees -  _it was Bran's voice-_  and finally there was confirmation from Howland Reed. He was his father’s - _no, my_ _uncle's-_  most loyal bannerman and only surviving witness to what actually transpired at the Tower of Joy in Dorne all those years ago. Lord Reed had slowly made his way to the Wall after whispers of the death and rebirth of the Lord Commander had reached the Neck. 

In the privacy of Jon's rooms at Castle Black, Lord Reed had told him about the so called abduction of Lyanna Stark. It was in truth two people deeply in love, defying their families and the realm itself, and running off to be married before the eyes of the old gods before a heart tree. Then again in the ways of the new gods in a sept in Dorne before three knights of the Kingsguard and Prince Rhaegar's - _father's-_  friends. His parents’ joy was short lived however. Jon Arryn had called his banners and rumblings of a rebellion had grown ever stronger in the realm. Soon enough Westeros was war torn and ravaged, and Lyanna Stark was with child, hidden away in a tower while her beloved tried and failedto save them all.  
  
Learning you were born to fulfill a prophecy was not the easiest thing to take as a young man, but Lord Reed's insistence that there was real love between his parents was comforting, not that it kept Jon from blaming them for the whole of Robert's Rebellion. All those years thinking that his mother must have not meant all that much to her brotherEddard ;learning that she had meant everything to him, so much so that he even kept her identity from his own lady wife, gave him a peace of mind that had eluded him much of his youth. He had been wanted and loved and raised by a more honorable man than most. Lord Stark may have only been his uncle in truth, but Jon would forever remember him as the man who had raised him as his own, committing treason and risking his life for the sake of a sister he loved.   
  
\--------  
  
His half sister - _she'd my co_ _usin now-_ Sansa showed up at the Wall seeking safety mere weeks after the arrival of the armies from the Neck. While she was safely guarded by Lady Brienne of Tarth, Ser Jaime Lannister, and a squire named Podrick Payne, she was frail and sickly, as beautiful as ever, but underfed since her escape from The Vale and Lord Petyr Baelish. Wrapped up in as many spare cloaks and furs as they had available, Sansa had still contracted a fever and was delirious as Jon helped her from the horse she shared with Ser Jaime, and was sent immediately to the healers of the free folk. After seeing to her needs he returned to the lady and knight, thanking them for their service, but questioning why they had brought her to him in the first place. The Wall was no place for a woman, at least not one of such noble and gentle birth, and it was Ser Jaime who gave him the surprising answer.   
  
“You are all she has left, Lord Commander.”  
  
As weeks passed, Sansa grew stronger and healthier, calling Jon “brother” affectionately, something he longed for as a boy but no longer felt quite right. Each night they would share their meager meals together, swapping stories of their time apart, sharing their sorrows over all they have lost. Sansa learns about his time with the wildings, but Ygritte is off limits. “We are the last two Starks,” she told him, and it broke something in him, knowing that was also a lie.He listened as she told him about overcoming the anger she felt at the horrors she faced at both the hands of King Joffrey and Littlefinger.  He wanted to tell her about his parents with the help of Lord Reed, and nearly did so before they were interrupted by his steward Satin and an important message from the South.   
  
Daenerys Targaryen  - _my a_ _unt-_  had been seen off the coast near the Grey Cliffs with an army at her back and three young but growing dragons.  Lord Howland insisted that the time for secrecy is past. Jon needed to publicly claim his true identity as Rhaegar's legitimate son in hopes of reaching an alliance with the Dragon Queen, of receiving her help to fight off the Others whose power was growing each day, and he needed to do it quickly. 

  
With as many lords and ladies of the North packed in tightly with the remaining men of the Watch and remnants of Stannis Baratheon's army in the largest hall at Castle Black, Howland Reed told the story of Rhaegar and Lyanna much in the same manner as he did when he told it to Jon himself. Looks of shock and hushed whispers fell over the inhabitants of the room, yet the only reaction Jon sought out was Sansa’s. Her face was schooled in a placid manner, but her Tully eyes held a look of both fury and disappointment. - _I cant believe I've_   _let her down so much in not telling her sooner.-_

  
\-------  
  
Sansa's eventual knock at his door was not surprising, only the timing of it had come as a shock.  
  
Struggling to pull his tunic over his head, Jon stumbled about his room to see who thought it was fit to seek him out when the rest of the world was still asleep. The guards posted to his door must have felt it was urgent, because they had let this visitor wake him only a few hours of after he'd finally made it back to his rooms, escaping the chaos that Howland Reed had unleashed. Opening the heavy wooden door - _It helps to keep the cold out, and more knives-_  Jon came face to face with Sansa, the hood of her cloak thrown over her head, eyes red from what he suspected had been tears - _My fault no doubt-_. Wordlessly he stepped away from the door, allowing her to squeeze past before shutting it tight and bolting the lock.  
  
Throwing another log on the fireJon offered a cup of wine to Sansa, who graciously accepted and drank it like he'd ever seen her do before - _Liquid courage-_  before sitting herself down in a chair across from his.  
  
“Why didn't you tell me before?” Is all she said, a great sadness filling her eyes and voice.  
  
“It's complicated Sansa. I was only adjusting to the news myself when you came here. At first you were ill, and then you were dealing with your own demons. It was never a good time.” He said, as honest as he thought he'd ever been with her. Looking up at her, he saw the wheels in her head turning - _Clearly n_ _ot all of Petyr Baelish’s teachings have escaped her_.-  
  
“Will you make a claim to the Throne? You are the heir of Rhaegar Targaryan, not this foreign queen with her dragons. You could rule the realm well, Jon. You've done a great many things here at the Wall.”  
  
“Including being murdered by my own men. For the watch, they’d said. If it wasn't for Lady Melisandre, I'd be nothing more than the thing we are trying to fight, just another wight in service of the Others. We need this foreign queen; my  _aunt_  and her dragons could save the entire realm. That's more important to me than a throne. You are more important to me than a throne.” There was an amount of sincerity in his voice that he found alarming. Those words were the truest he had said in a long time. The smile on Sansa's face made his heart race just a little faster, and the glint of mischief in her eyes told him she has a plan.  
  
“Why, it sounds like you'll be needing yourself an envoy, cousin. Someone who knows the ways of court and how to play the game.”  
  
Confused, he couldn’t help but ask. “What game Sansa?”  
  
“The only game there is, Jon. The game of thrones.”  
  
\-----  
  
No longer does anyone call him Jon Snow, Lord Commander, Bastard, or even  _half-brother_.  
  
He is Jon of the Houses Stark and Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.  
  
Though he feels more Stark than anything, and their words ring true to him, he has also discovered his ability to live up to the words of his father’s house - _Fire and Blood is how the Others are defeated after all.-_   A true Targaryen is what they call him now, among other things.   
  
Azor Ahai, The Prince That Was Promised, Dragonrider, Nephew, and perhaps the sweetest to his ear, _Cousin._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this one was much longer than the first bit. I expect the rest of the chapters to stay around this size in length, maybe a little bit shorter, we shall see! I hope the turn around on this fic stays pretty consistent and quick. Call it an experiment in character exploration (Jon is not the easiest to write!) and canon set writing if you will..
> 
> Thank you all for the your kind comments and kudos! I appreciate them all so much! Please feel free to leave feedback, I love to talk to you all :)


	3. Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's now that he notices the unruly child who struggles to stand next to Sansa, his auburn curls tumbling to his shoulders and the vivid blue eyes that appear almost wild. He feels as if he's seen a ghost (Robb, my dear brother.) but the woman of the free folk who holds the boys hand makes him realize that he's terribly wrong.

The tentative friendship Jon thinks they built during their stay together at Castle Black and during the war against the Others all but dwindles in the time they have spent apart. He still receives ravens, both personal letters and ones filled with all the on goings in the North, but in recent moons they have lacked the familiarity that he grew accustomed to while at The Wall.  
  
The frown that graces his face while reading his latest letter from Sansa causes his aunt to speak up from her place across their shared solar. Their rule together as King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms has been an unconventional one, both sharing the duties of the realm, while out right refusing to marry one another as many of their councilors had insisted on ( _the last marriage my aunt was forced into ended in dragon fire, though this time it would not be her husband to receive Drogon's flame.)  
  
_ “My dear nephew, what troubles you so? Is something wrong with Sansa? With Winterfell?” His aunt asks as she put down the missive she had been reading from one of her holdings in Slavers Bay. Dany had grown to love Sansa in the time that they had spent together while Sansa treated with her ( _and her Hand, the husband she thought to be dead_.) on behalf of Jon and the North.  
  
“It is nothing aunt. Sansa is well, Winterfell is thriving. She sends her love and thanks for the Myrish glass to rebuild the glass gardens, and for the lemon tree sapling from Dorne. Lemons are her favorite.” He says in an even tone, acting as if nothing is amiss.  
  
His aunt quirks an eyebrow up at him, her purple eyes filling with concern. “Then why do you look like she's told you that the Others have returned?”  
  
“That's a bit dramatic Dany.” He sighs and scrubs his hand through his beard.  
  
His aunts laugh tinkles brightly across the room, her eyes filled with mirth as she smiles at him from her own desk. “This coming from the most serious and dramatic person I have ever known, and I have ridden with a Dothraki horde while married to a warlord.”  
  
He glares at her before he returns his eyes back to the letter in his hand, written in Sansa's elegant script are flowery words he wishes to believe fully, but feels off in a way he can't describe.   
  
“If you are so worried about Sansa, why don't you take Rhaegal and head to Winterfell? You could be there in two days time, less even. I can handle the matters of the realm while you go and visit your cousin.” His aunt says in a matter of fact tone, picking back up her missive and dismissing him with a flick of her wrist.  
  
\--------  
  
Satin is helping him pack up the last remaining items needed for a trip to the North when he hears the familiar click of ladies shoes coming hurriedly down his apartments, and he doesn't even need to turn to his door who know exactly who it will be ( _She knows everything, like a good Hand should.)  
  
_ “Come in Lady Shireen, I've been expecting you.” Jon calls as he's adjusting his riding leathers one last time.   
  
“Jon Targaryen! It matters not if you are the King of the Seven Kingdoms, how dare you try and leave the capital without discussing it with your Hand? Lord Tyrion and I might work as well together as you and your aunt do, but I need some instructions from my king to act as his Hand while he's away.” Lady Shireen's black hair is falling out of the hastily done bun, her blue eyes filled with anger ( _Ours is the Fury fits her well.)  
  
_ “Pardons my lady. I was in such a hurry to be leaving. You won't be needing directions anyway Shireen, Lord Tyrion and my aunt will have this all covered, since you're to be joining me.”  
  
“King Jon.” Shireen says with a pause, “How?”  
  
“By dragon of course, my dear Hand.”  
  
\-------------------------------  
  
His bond with his dragon Rhaegal had never been as strong as the one he has with Ghost, but the beast follows his commands while delivering both his rider and companion to the North. Daenerys had taught her children to carry large baskets when they had been fighting against the Others, often filled with supplies or people, and this trip is no exception. Ghost is used to this means of transportation, and curls up among the furs while Lady Shireen curls up against him, a book in her hands while the whole of Westeros passes below them.   
  
Jon is not surprised to see a small mounted force waiting for them when they reach the open field in the Wolfswood that Daenerys had used in past trips to Winterfell, traveling by dragon might be fast, but ravens have a way of reaching their destinations quicker.  
  
“Your Highness, imagine our lady's surprise when she received a message this morning that a dragon had been spotted in the area. It's a pleasure to see you King Jon.” Lady Brienne calls from her mount as Jon helps Shireen out of the basket that's tethered to Rhaegal, Ghost already bounding away towards the Godswood.  
  
“I would have sent word myself, but your lady would have told me to stay put in Kings Landing. I might be king, but I wouldn't dare visit without Sansa's leave.” Jon replies to Lady Brienne, pulling himself up onto one of the empty mounts provided. ( _As much as I'd like, Winterfell will never be mine.)_  
  
“Which is why he just decided to come up with no notice. What a king he is, right?” Shireen quips from her own horse, causing the rest of the guard to snigger when she sticks her tongue out at him.   
  
“I'm sure my brother is quite fond you Lady Shireen. Hand of the King at the age of four-and-ten, you're quite precocious. And clever.” Ser Jaime says, leading the mounted guard   
through the Wolfswoods and back towards Winterfell.  
  
“Aye Ser Jaime, she matches Lord Tyrion in equal measures of wits and cleverness. Lady Shireen here has over taken your brother as reigning cyvasse champion.” He says, voice teasing the young maid.  
  
Jon is able to barely make out the shape of Winterfell in front of him, the fortress bearing the black and red standard of his house above the grey and white direwolf of the Starks. He's been here once since the end of the war, spending a full moons turn in the walls of his childhood home to help Sansa oversee the start of the rebuilding before heading South to Kings Landing. It had been more than a year hence, but he was well aware that many laborers were still repairing the keep. ( _This feels like home._ )   
  
“He taught me too.” Shireen says with a bright smile on her face. “The fool move on his part was to teach me all his tricks and strategies. I can use all of it against him.”   
  
Lady Brienne laughs and leans over towards Jon, whispering. “I see why you made the lady your Hand.”  
  
“Laddy Shireen is more competent than most men I've known. Her intelligence was helpful in the war against the Others, even at two-and-ten she was helping me lead war councils and spending all her spare time scouring the library at Castle Black to find any information we might have missed. Shireen was the logical choice after all that had happened, and if she just so happens to match wits with my aunts Hand, so be it.”  
  
The gates are open as Ser Jaime leads the guard into the yard, where a humble group of the castles inhabitants have arranged themselves in an orderly fashion. Off in the distance Jon could here the shouts of working men perhaps raising a wall, or fixing a roof, and he was oddly pleased that Sansa hadn't ordered a cease to all work on his behalf. Before him, Sansa stood tall and proud at the head of group, and if he hadn't known better, he would miss the look of distress that etches into her face _(She still looks beautiful.)_   
  
It's now that he notices the unruly child who struggles to stand next to Sansa, his auburn curls tumbling to his shoulders and the vivid blue eyes that appear almost wild. He feels as if he's seen a ghost _(Robb, my dear brother.)_ but the woman of the free folk who holds the boys hand makes him realize that he's terribly wrong.   
  
Suddenly everything happens in slow motion and all at once. Jon slides off his mount in a less-than-graceful way for a king, while his heart beats wildly in his chest, and the boy ( _Rickon, it has to be)_ pulls away from his spot between Sansa and the wilding woman, bolting to where Jon is standing and waiting, his arms open wide for a brother returned from the grave. The wind is knocked out of him when Rickon leaps into his hold, crying, screaming repeatedly something that Jon can't quite make out. Setting the young boy back down he finally hears what the youngest Stark is saying, and he can't help but freeze in near horror and guilt.   
  
“Father, you're home! You came back for me, for us!” Rickon cries in earnest, as Jon just holds him, completely unsure of what to do.  
  
From across the yard he meets Sansa's gaze, silently asking a hundred different questions at one time. Her blues eyes fill with tears as she shakes head, gasping a sob before she turns and runs back to the keep.   
  
\---------------------------------------------  
  
This time it's Jon sneaking to Sansa's chambers under the darkness of night. He had tried to visit her after the free folk woman named Osha had been able to calm Rickon down and taken him to his chambers, but his cousin had refused his entry. If it had been anyone else, Jon would have demanded entrance, as the King of the Seven Kingdoms, but the look Lady Brienne gave him while telling him that Sansa begged for some privacy had been enough for him to agree to leave her be for the afternoon. Instead he opted for a bath in the hot springs and to take Ghost hunting the the Wolfswood.   
  
That was hours ago however, and he could not help but recall a night at Castle Black where Sansa had sneaked into his rooms after Lord Howland Reed had made his announcement. No, Jon needed answers, and he needed them now. So that was how he ended up in front of Sansa's chamber doors, telling her guard to piss off ( _I am the king after all.)_ and knocking loud enough to wake half the damn castle up.   
  
“Sansa. Let me in now.” He said in a low, but steady voice as he pounded his fist against the heavy oak of her door. He went to knock again when the door swung open, revealing his cousin in a dressing robe, her hair braided and face tear stained.   
  
“Your Grace.” She says as she allows him to enter her chambers, pointing to a small sitting area by the hearth. Jon adds a log to the fire before settling into a chair while Sansa wrings her hands together, pacing across the length of her room.  
  
“How long?” Is all he can think to ask, too angry and disappointed to trust himself with much more.   
  
“Nearly a year.” Sansa answers immediately, her voice hovers above a whisper.   
  
He wants to rage at her, not as her king, and he's not entirely sure its as her cousin either, but he allows himself to close his eyes for a moment and focus on his breathing. They say his aunt lives true to the Targaryen name, all fire and blood, but in moments like these he knows this is something he inherited from as the blood of the dragon.   
  
“Why? Why keep this from me Sansa? I could have helped.”  
  
“No.” She says sharply, stopping her pacing and standing rooted in the ground in front of him. “You could not have helped, not all the way in Kings Landing when you have a realm to rule. When Ser Davos brought Rickon back, he was more wilding than he was Stark. Rickon had spent more time inside the mind of a direwolf than he had his own body for years Jon, and he was unfit for most human contact. It's not a risk I could take, letting it be known that Rickon had returned. What if Robb's bannermen tried to take him away from me, or tried to rebel in order to crown him King in the North? I would not let those things happen, so I did what I needed to.”  
  
“You kept him hidden Sansa, from me. He's my brother too.” His voice and words betray the sense of hurt he's feeling.  
  
“Cousin. He's just your cousin. Rickon is also the rightful Lord of Winterfell, and while I knew you'd have me serve as his regent, he wasn't ready to be the Lord. He's still not Jon. You must understand.” Sansa pleads, pulling up the chair next to him and taking his hand in hers ( _She is soft and warm like always.)  
  
_ “Do you have so little faith in me?” Jon asks, rubbing circles into the skin on the back of Sansa's hand. She makes a sound of non commitment in the back of her throat, but leans her head against his shoulder all the same.  
  
“I thought we were friends Sansa. After our time at Castle Black together, and all the things we had been through. I know we're cousins, but I thought we were friends as well.”  
  
“I've seen what happens to Starks who maintain personal friendships to the kings of this country, and I thought it was best to keep a bit of distance between us Jon. I regret that now, truly. I'm sorry to have lied to you, and to Queen Daenerys. I accept any punishment you see fit for my actions.” She says as her tears flow freely down her face.  
  
Jon reaches up and wipes her cheeks, wrapping his arms around Sansa's shoulders as she shakes in his grasp as the weight of her choices are lifted from her shoulders. He could do this all night, wants to be the one to comfort her every day when she is overwhelmed by her duty to her family and the people of the North. He presses a kiss onto the crown of her head, murmuring soothing sounds to help her calm herself, reassuring her that she'll receive no punishment.   
  
“He called me Father.” He says sometime later, after they have moved to sit (A _lbeit awkwardly, we're not used to each other anymore._ ) on the top of the quilts and furs covering her bed.   
  
“We've only broken him from calling me Mother this fortnight past. It'll take some time.” Sansa says, while fighting to keep her eyes open. A few moments more of silence pass before Jon can hear Sansa's soft snores, prompting him to pull her furs up and around her while pulling himself out of her grasp.  
  
“Don't go. Stay Jon. Sleep.” Sansa mumbles as she curls into him more, her head pillowed on his chest.   
  
This is when Jon realizes he'd be a fool for denying her anything.   
  
“Good night Sansa.” He says, pulling her closer to him as sleep finally over takes him.  
  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Feel free to drop me a line over on tumbler [here](http://bex-morealli.tumblr.com/). I'm multi fandom, multi ship, and blog about nearly everything! I love making new friends and fan girling over various things! 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for all the kind comments and kudos! I'm SUPER excited for the next chapter by the way. Who doesn't like some smut? ;)
> 
> As of posting, this is still unbeta'd, but that's likely to change!


	4. Lovers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He has lost count of how many times they have done this before. Sansa is laying back under his gaze, naked as her name day, her breasts heaving, beads of sweat rolling down the flat planes of her stomach. Her eyes are cloudy with lust and she is giving him an expression that makes him grow increasingly hard in his breeches.

If Jon was follower of The Seven, Sansa would have been his sept and her cunt the alter at which he worshiped. Instead she was the embodiment of the Old Gods and the weirwood, her naked flesh a pale white, the auburn of her hair a deep red in the firelight of her chambers at Winterfell, and he worshiped her all the same.   
  
He has lost count of how many times they have done this before. Sansa is laying back under his gaze, naked as her name day, her breasts heaving, beads of sweat rolling down the flat planes of her stomach. Her eyes are cloudy with lust and she is giving him an expression that makes him grow increasingly hard in his breeches.  
  
“Jon.” Sansa says softly. It's almost a moan, and all he's done is kiss her yet. _And get her naked._  
  
“Yes Sansa?” He asks, leaning back on his haunches and running one hand down the length of her long, pale legs. She parts her legs on instinct when he grasps her by the left ankle, running his beard over the skin there while placing feather light kisses along her calf.  
  
“Jon.” She nearly whines this time, her back arching of the bed, head thrown back in frustration. “Stop teasing.”  
  
He looks up from where he's kissing her, having just reached the underside of her knee. His fingers grasp her thighs, holding them apart enough for his shoulders to fit between her knees. He leans up a bit further to nip a bit at her left thigh, earning him a half growl from Sansa, _she is a wolf after all_ , which causes him to chuckle into her skin.

  
“Whatever do you mean sweetheart? Kings don't tease.”  
  
“No, but bastards do, Jon Snow. Now stop teasing.”  
  
The use of his former name is not one that people use anymore, let alone calling him a bastard. He's the King after all, true born son of Lyanna and Rhaegar, but Sansa has a way of getting to do and say things most people would lose their heads over, and not just because she's been warming his bed these past few moons. _It's because you love her, you bloody fool._  
  
He continues to kiss his way up her thighs, her breathing becoming all the more erractic as he inches closer to the spot where she wants, no, needs him to be. Her cunt is pink and swollen, her wetness already glistening in the firelight, and it's enough to drive him mad. He runs runs one finger down her slit, parting her nether lips and gathering her wetness before slipping that finger between his lips, and he's not sure which one of them moans louder.  
  
Ever so carefully, as he always is with her, he parts her thighs further and settles down on his stomach, before placing her knees over his shoulders and dragging his tongue slowly over her cunt. Sansa's reaction is immediate, her hips jumping off the bed and her fingers tangling in his hair. Jon makes another swipe over his path, enjoying the taste of her, her true essence on his tongue. Sansa is sweet like honey, with an undertone of the lavender and lemon he knows she uses in her baths, the combined taste and smell of her is heady to him, almost enough to make him just take her right now.  
  
He knows he wont though, ever the gentlemen that he is, he always brings Sansa to her peak, sometimes multiple peaks, before seeking his own pleasure. It's a task he enjoys, his mouth working over her cunt, something he would gladly do all day if it was possible. Jon focuses his attention on the nub at the top of her, flicking it repeatedly with his tongue while Sansa lets out a low moan, her hips maintaining a cadence with his attentions, seeking out more pressure than what Jon is currently giving her. _Not so fast there my lady._  
  
He snakes his arm up over her hips, holding her in place while she lets out a whine of protest. He smiles into her flesh, pleasantly surprised when she digs the heel of her foot into his back, her nails a sharp pain on his scalp. His free hand leaves the hold he's had on her arse, and slowly he inserts one digit into her opening, pumping in and out at a leisurely pace.  
  
“Oh gods. Jon. Oh... Jon.” Sansa moans, his name egging him on. _The little minx knows how to get me going._  
  
“Gods Sansa. So fucking beautiful. My girl. My gorgeous girl.” Jon whispers into the trembling white flesh of her thigh, before adding a second finger to his ministrations and picking up his pace.   
  
He lets her hands guide him back to where she needs him most, his tongue lashing against her clit as she cries out at him her demands of “more” and “harder” in a barely recognizable voice. When she comes around his fingers, its fast and hard, her hips straining against the arm he uses to hold her down, her cunt pulsing around the fingers inside her. He eases her down from her high with his mouth, peppering her slick flesh with kisses until body is so relaxed that she practically melts into the furs on the bed.  
  
Jon slowly removes himself from her legs, edging himself up the bed to where Sansa is trying to regain her breath. He leans over her body, grabbing her by the chin and pulling her into a searing kiss, knowing she can taste herself on him and that she really doesn't mind it any more. Not like when they first started their affair, when she would shy way from his kisses after he would pleasure her with his mouth, from both shame and embarrassment in equal measure.  
  
“Jon. Breeches. Now.” Sansa demands as she pulls away, her hands already down at his laces, trying to help him out of them.  
  
Between the two of them it doesn't take long to pull the leather off his body, shedding his small clothes in the process. He moans when Sansa takes him in hand, giving his manhood two quick tugs before he pulls away. Jon knows he is already far to close to last long with Sansa's hands on him, so he quickly settles himself between her open thighs and guides his cock into her silky folds. Sansa whimpers as he enters her, bucking her hips to join them fully and wrapping her hands around his neck to pull him in for a kiss.  
  
There are times when they like to make love slowly, exploring each others bodies, loving each other until their releases hit them like a tidal wave. Other times, they fuck like the wolves they are, all teeth and curses, hair pulling and nails, it's quick and intense, but it's just as good as when they take it slow. Tonight is not a night for taking it slow, it's been over a moons turn since Jon had been back in the walls of Winterfell, and the need they both felt made things all the more urgent for them.  
  
“Fuck Sansa. So fucking perfect.” Jon grunts, his hips keeping up the steady rhythm they had set.  
  
“Jon. Touch me. Please. I need you.” Sansa pants against his ear.  
  
One of his hands cradling her waist leaves for the warmth of her cunt, rubbing circles over her clit. Her eyes practically roll back into her head, and while she's close, she's not quite there yet. He braces his free arm around her back, flipping them so Sansa is on top, riding him with her own jerky rhythm as his finger continue to caress her center. It only takes a few jerks of his hips and Sansa is coming apart on top of him, her release drawing out his own intense peak.  
  
They are a sticky, sweaty heap on Sansa's furs when either of them can finally move. Jon pulls himself out from under Sansa's body, walking to her vanity to grab the cloth and basin of water she keeps there when she knows he'll be visiting. He tends to cleaning Sansa up first, carefully wiping his seed from where its leaking down her inner thigh, before cleaning off his cock and pulling on his small clothes. Sansa is already curling up under her furs, sated and sleepy, but still awake enough to pout when Jon goes to pull on his breeches again.  
  
“Must you leave? You've only just returned my love.” She asks, sitting up and letting her furs fall around her waist, her breasts bared to him.  
  
“Sansa. It will not do for anyone to find the King in your bed. I'm supposed to be here to help you with Rickon, with your bannermen. You've had enough rumors spoken about you for a lifetime, I won't be the cause for any more.”  
  
“It's not as if the entirety of my household doesn't already know about you and I. The whole of the North honestly. Even Queen Daenerys must suspect. You spend more time in Winterfell than you have the capital in the last year. I wait for you, every other moon when you have to leave me again to go be the King again. Can't you just be Jon when you're here, with me, in my bed?” Sansa pleads with him, playing at his sensibilities in a way that pulls at his heart.  
  
“The whole North you say?” He grins at her, cocking his head to the side as she gives him an exasperated sigh.  
  
“Yes. The whole North. Maybe even the whole of the Seven Kingdoms. Now please, get back into my bed and spend the night with me,Your Grace.”  
  
Stripping his breeches and small clothes back off, Jon joins Sansa under her pile of furs, taking her into his arms. She rests her head on his chest, and he cant help but breathe in the scent of her hair while she traces patterns into the fine dark hairs on his chest.  
  
“You think Daenerys knows?” He asks. It's an odd thing to think his aunt knows about his sex life.  
  
“Probably. She's hinted at it in letters before.” Sansa says sleepily.  
  
As Sansa falls asleep in his arms, he can't help but wonder why his aunt has never mentioned anything to him about this before, and determines to question her about it when he returns to King's Landing in the next new moon. For now he'll happily hold onto Sansa and lose all thoughts about who may or may not know about them.  
  
“I love you, Jon.” Sansa murmurs in her sleep, burrowing closer to him as she drags a leg over his thighs.  
  
“I love you too, Sansa.” He says, kissing her brow before falling into a deep sleep himself.  
  
\----------------------------------------------  
  
Feel free to follow me on tumblr [here](http://bex-morealli.tumblr.com/)! I fan girl about a variety of fandoms and ships! 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the comments and kudos! I appreciate every single one of them! I hope this turned out good, it's pretty much the second time I've ever written smut, and the first time I've written from a mans POV. How awkward. 
> 
> At the time of posting, it's unBeta'd. So any mistakes are my own. :) Enjoy and let me know what you all think. :)


	5. Wife

They have been married for a moons turns before it hits him that Sansa is truly his, his lady wife, Queen consort to the realm, mother to the future ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. That she'll be by his side forever, and no lord has the right to take her away from him.   
  
This all dawns on him suddenly one morning as he watches her run a brush through her long auburn hair, clad only in a dressing gown that's slipping down her shoulder. Her pale skin looks translucent as the warm rays of early morning sunlight beam into their quarters in Maegor's Holdfast. Jon doesn't hold back the frown that is forming when he once again takes notice of the pattern of silvery scars crossing her back when her dressing gown slips further down. It makes his blood boil to see these reminders as to what his wife suffered at the hands of Joffrey the Cruel, and then again at the hands of Petyr Baelish, back when she was only his half sister and he was a man of the Night's Watch. _I'd kill Littlefinger again given the chance. No one will hurt her again._

“What are you staring at my lord?” Sansa asks him when she finally takes notice of his insesent stare through her looking glass. Setting down her brush, she turns to look at him fully, a small smile playing on her pink lips.  
  
“Just my wife.”  
  
“Is that all I am then? Just your wife? Should not a king shower his bride in compliments? Rave about my wits and keen mind, declare that I am the most beautiful lady in the whole realm?” Sansa eyebrows arch with a certain grace, a smirk blooming on her lips before her words turn into high, tinkling laugh.  
  
“I'm only the king before the court San, while sitting on that blasted throne or in an endless meeting with mine and Dany's councilors. In here, in our chambers, I simply wish to be your husband, and for you to be my wife. Let the courtiers speak about your wits and political prowess.” He says as he moves from his spot on the bed, making his way towards where his wife is sitting with slow, deliberate movements, drawing out this moment and feeling the growing heat between them with every step he takes. Her gaze burns through him, hotter than the flames used to bring him back to life, hotter than his dragons fire when they fought the Others all those years ago.  
  
Jon settles himself right on the edge of the bed, pulling Sansa's chair close enough that he can smell the lemon and lavender that lingers on her skin from her bath that morning. Running a hand down the length of her just brushed hair, he pushes it aside to lean in and kiss the hallow of her throat, causing Sansa to sigh in content, before working his way up to her ear lobe, nipping it before pulling back to look her straight in the eye.  
  
“Let me whisper to you of how good your cunts tastes and how right it feels around my cock, wife.”  
  
“Oh.” She manages to sigh out before Jon pulls her on his lap, finding her lips with his own, fully intending to make good on what he just told her.

  
\-----------------  
  
I know this is terribly short, but the next chapter is the final bit and it's going to be quite long.  
  
Feel free to follow me on tumblr [here](http://bex-morealli.tumblr.com/), where I fan girl about multiple fandoms and ships, and occasionally make super awesome picsets for various things. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it took so long to get this out, it's been a little hectic in these parts recently. I promise it will not take as long to post the final bit as it did for this part!
> 
> Thank you for all the kudos and comments! They mean so much to me!


	6. Mother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The birth of the King's heir was a cause for celebration, or so claimed Queen Daenerys only hours after his wife had left the birthing bed for their chambers once again. There was no use arguing, not when he was informed that there was ravens sent out announcing the birth and the festival that was to be celebrated in three moons turns within minutes of his becoming a father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For AliceInNeverNeverland, who prompted me with finishing this fic!

The birth of the King's heir was a cause for celebration, or so claimed Queen Daenerys only hours after his wife had left the birthing bed for their chambers once again. There was no use arguing, not when he was informed that there was ravens sent out announcing the birth and the festival that was to be celebrated in three moons turns within minutes of his becoming a father.   
  
Instead, Jon just grinned and bared it, sharing the news with his lady wife as she dozed in and out of post birth sleep, talking in hushed tones as to not wake the babe he held cradled to his chest. The wet nurse would be along in a few minutes time to take their precious bundle to the nearby nursery, allowing the new parents a few hours peace and quite, and much needed sleep.  
  
For now though, Jon just clutched the baby to his chest, cooing nonsense as Sansa smiled dreamily at them both while running her fingers through the black curls a top the small head of their baby. _Their baby. This baby is ours. We made this together all those moons ago. It's just as much of Sansa as it is of me._  
  
They lay there in silence until the nurse comes, Sansa suddenly be much more alert than before, her eyes filling with fear as the woman lifted the babe from Jon's arms. Wrapping his wife up tenderly in his arms, he kisses her brow and tells her that she needs to sleep and that they hired the wet nurses for a reason, reassuring her that come morning light they will see their new babe again. Wiping the lingering tears from her blue eyes, Sansa sighs and calls herself silly, before settling deeper into their bed and dozing off to sleep while Jon strokes her hair.   
  
It hits him, suddenly and strongly that he has everything he's ever wanted and more. As a boy he dreamed of Winterfell, of a pretty highborn wife, and children to call his own, children to call Stark. Instead he got the Iron Throne, something he had never even aspired for, the name Targaryen, a wife more beautiful than he could have dreamed, and now a new child to give all this love to.   
  
Kissing Sansa on her brow, Jon carefully wraps his arms around his wife, pulling her closer than he'd been able to in months. He drifted off to a peaceful sleep, his dreams filled with thoughts of his wife and child, and what the future could hold.  
  
\-------------------------------------------  
  
3 Months Later  
  
\-------------------------------------------  
  
The rapping at their bed chamber door is not what wakes him; he's been awake for hours, since the first rays of the sun started to show itself through the windows of the rooms he shares with his lady wife. The rapping is only what finally prompts the king to leave the nest of furs and blankets Sansa made in her sleep, where he has been dawdling from his responsibilities this morning to enjoy the last few fleeting hours of privacy they have before all of the Seven Kingdoms descends on the capital.   
  
Throwing a dressing gown over his bare chest, Jon brushes Sansa's hair away from her forehead, pressing his lips to it in a quick kiss before closing the curtains that enclose the four poster bed.   
  
The rapping only increases as Jon pads his way over to the door, opening it to whoever it is his Kingsguard has allowed enter the royal quarters at this time in the morning. The door is barely opened a crack before a large black direwolf pushes his way through, followed closely by the young Lord of Winterfell, Rickon Stark.   
  
“Good morning goodbrother. I mean Your Grace. Well, actually, what do I have to call you now Jon?” The 14 year old lordling asks, cocking his head to the side before shaking it animatedly, throwing his arms around Jon with a hug held of brotherly affection.   
  
“Technically you should always address the king as Your Grace, unless you've been given permission otherwise.” Comes the voice of his soon-to-be former Hand, Lady Shireen poking her head in the door, hand clamped tightly over her eyes as to not see anything distasteful.   
  
“Your betrothed is right Rickon. Your Grace is the proper title, but I'll accept both Jon and brother from you. Best not let your sister hear anything but what's proper around mixed company though.” Jon says, walking behind the dressing screen to put on some proper clothes. He knows he'll have to change again later, into whatever it is Daenerys and Sansa have schemed up together in the way of royal finery. _At least it will be mostly black._  
  
He hears a groan and a mutter, Rickon whispering to Shaggydog that he'll never be able to remember all these rules, Shireen giggling that he'll just have to keep her around then.   
  
Pulling an old pair of boots on, Jon walks back around the screen and towards the sitting area where his two guests lounge with the big black direwolf who is sniffing around for his brother, though the gods only know where Ghost has gone off to at this hour.   
  
“There must be a reason for such an early morning visit on this of all days, my dear Hand.” Jon says, settling into a chair across from the young pair.   
  
“Yes. Of course. A letter from Storms End arrived last night, from my dearest cousin Gendry. I knew you and Lady Sansa should see it first.” Shireen says, pulling a scroll out from the sleeve of her gown, the black stag seal of House Baratheon unbroken against the parachment.   
  
“Thank you Shireen, Rickon. I'm sure you both have much to do to prepare for the day. I shall see you in a few hours.” Jon says in way of dismissal.   
  
Shireen stands immediately, a bright smile on her face that does not quite meet her eyes, before motioning for her future lord husband to do the same. Rickon is a little more stubborn though, his eyebrows furrowing together in annoyance and a scowl forming across his face.   
  
“It's about her, isn't it? He's found Arya?” Rickon asks, though Jon suspects he doesn't need to give Rickon an actual answer.  
  
“We don't know Rickon. Lord Gendry has spent many moons in the East, following clues and stories, things that might not even have merit. It seems that whatever he has discovered, he has returned to his seat at Storms End.”  
  
Lord Gendry Baratheon was the last remaining of the usurpers bastard male children, having made his way to the Wall during the war against the Others and pledging himself to the service of House Targaryen. Jon was able to convince Daenerys to spare the knight, for Gendry had never known Robert Baratheon as a father, just as a drunken king who was dumb enough to get himself killed by a boar. Gendry proved himself every bit of Roberts son in battle though, wielding a war hammer with more certainty than he ever had with a blade, and for all his efforts the Dragon Queen agreed to legitimize him, so the name Baratheon would not die out. Shireen had been named Lady of Storms End by that point though, so the new found cousins had agreed that Gendry would act as steward while the ruling Lady was acting as Jon's Hand in Kings Landing.   
  
Shireen becoming engaged to the young Lord Rickon Stark changed things though, as she would be stepping down from her Handship to help her new lord husband with the running of the North after their marriage. It was Shireen that had convinced the King and Queen to name Gendry the Lord of Storms End, as any future children of her's would be the heirs of Winterfell and the North.   
  
“Jon will let us both know if anything important is in my cousins letter, I'm absolutely sure of it Rickon. Now, we should go break our fasts before we need to get ready for this afternoons events.” Shireen tells Rickon, gently edging the younger man out of the room, followed willingly by the great black beast who came with them.  
  
Once the door was shut securely behind them, Jon heard the curtains to the bed opening. Sansa peeked her head out of the drapes, her auburn hair mused from sleep and her night shift falling off her shoulder. Blue eyes shown out from the darkness that encased the bed, a silent plea to come and read the letter from Gendry together. Jon needs no more prompting than the look on the face of his wife before kicking the boots he wears off hastily and climbing back into their marriage bed.   
  
The letter is brief in truth. When word made it to Westeros that Arya Stark was likely alive and somewhere in Esso, Sansa had weeped with equal parts joy and sorrow, begging Jon to send someone, anyone, to find her and bring her home. It took a measure of secrecy on their parts, only their most faithful allies being privy to the information, and even fewer being trusted to head East to search. In three years Gendry has made two trips to the free cities, both under the pretense of being there on behalf of House Targaryen, preforming menial tasks for Daenerys and her holdings in the East, while truly following a trail of whispers and misinformation.  
  
 _  
Dear King Jon,  
  
I have returned to Storms End empty handed. The last two moons spent in Braavos has not gone without progress, as I have learned a great many things. I am closer than ever to finally being able to bring you what you seek, and in a few moons turns I shall make my way back to Braavos to seek our prize.   
  
I regret to inform you that I will miss the grand tourney thrown in the honor of your heir, as I've only just returned to my castle within the last few hours of writing this letter. Please give my love to your lady wife and the babe, and my apologies to Queen Daenerys. I shall be visiting within the fortnight, there is much and more to discuss.   
  
Regards, Your humble servant,   
  
Gendry Baratheon, Lord of Storms End  
  
_The GB scribbled at the end of the letter were the only part truly written by the young lord, the maester at Storms End very patiently teaching Gendry his letters and numbers. The fine script and flowery words were those of the maester, writing much more discreetly than Gendry ever could.   
  
“Good thing Gendry can't write well yet, or this letter would simply say “I haven't found Arya but I have an idea of where she is.” Or something along those lines.” Jon says, wrapping a free arm around Sansa and kissing her cheek.   
  
“It would be full of foul language too.” Sansa says with a sigh, and Jon can hear it in her voice, the sadness that lingers every time Arya isn't returned home to them.   
  
“She knows we're looking for her Sansa. Last time Gendry told us he was certain she was trailing him, and this time he was hopeful that she would let him make contact with her. Whenever she's ready. Whenever she can leave whatever life she's been living in Braavos, or is willing to leave, we'll be here for her Sansa.”  
  
“They say no one can truly leave the Faceless Jon. Arya will never be the same.”  
  
“Aye. None of us are the same any more Sansa. Not since we were children.” He says, pressing another kiss into the crown of his wife's head. “I was your brother then, and we both know you wouldn't want that to stay the same.”  
  
Sansa huffs a sigh, and with a practiced tone says. “Half-Brother. Only ever my half-brother. And I never treated you much like a sister should, I was cruel. Not only to you, but to Arya as well. She probably hates me Jon, she'll never come back to us and it will be my own fault.”  
  
As Sansa's pretty blue eyes fill with tears, Jon can't help but feel for her. Much and more has changed since they were children, and he can understand Sansa's fears and what worries her. As a child and into her early maidenhood, Sansa was not the easiest of sisters to have, and in the years since their reunion Jon has learned a great deal of things about the fateful trip down the Kingsroad and of the brief time both sisters were here in Kings Landing together.  
  
“You were a young girl Sansa. Yes, naive to the way of things, but even your lord father wasn't prepared for the snake pit that was Kings Landing with Cersei Lannister as queen. You've learned, and changed for the better because of the hardships you've dealt with. If Arya ever returns to us, it might take the rest of your lives, but you two are sisters, are Starks, and I have every reason to believe you will put your pasts behind you two and repair your relationship.”  
  
Her eyes light up and the look upon her face is so filled with love and admiration that it makes Jon almost breathless. “Whatever did I do to deserve such a man as you Jon?”   
  
Jon just nudges her forehead with his own, places a sweet kiss upon Sansa's lips, and urges her towards the door where one of the guards will send for her maids, a hot bath and something to break her fast with. Jon foregoes the bath for himself for now, it will take Sansa much longer to get ready for the day and he's already told his steward that he'll be needed in a few hours time to dress him proper for the day, instead opting to head towards the nursery as he does most mornings when Kingship isn't pressing.  
  
He supposes he should not be surprised to find Ghost sleeping in the hall outside the nursery door, the wet nurses prefer the white direwolf to stay out of their way when neither him nor Sansa are with him. Ghost perks his ears and blinks his eyes up towards Jon as he nears the room, standing and stretching like cat before padding softly towards his master and greedily accepting the ear scratches Jon freely gives. _Lazy beast.  
  
_ The door swings open before Jon even has a chance to knock on it, a large maester filling the doorway with a look of surprise on his face.   
  
“Oh. Your Grace. Uhh, erm, Jon.” Samwell Tarly stammers as his cheeks grow red.   
  
“Sam. Good morning. Is there something wrong?” Jon asks, trying not be get too alarmed. Sam may be a maester now, but he's also married with young children of his own, defying the old traditions of the Citadel with the blessing of his queen and king. He and Gilly have their boy, Little Sam, and a daughter nearing her second name day, with another on the way.  
  
Sam's daughter Willow is often kept in these rooms with many of the other children of those who work in the Red Keep, and idea that Daenerys had urged them to adopt some years past. _Let the children grow up as friends, despite their station in life, and may they not make the same mistakes of their ancestors._   
  
“Just a quick check on the royal heir. All ten fingers, all ten toes, perfect health. Many people are coming to meet your child Jon, can't have your babe getting sick at the last moment.”   
  
“Aye. Sansa would be distraught if we can't continue on as planned today. I don't even want to think about how Daenerys would react.” Jon shudders at the thought. _Mother of Dragons indeed.  
  
_ Sam laughs and bids Jon a farewell, heading off in the general direction of where his family rooms are, likely to break his fast with his wife before the queen sets him to tasks as Kings Landing fills with nobles and smallfolk alike.   
  
The main room of the nursery is quite, one wet nurse attending to the needs of another child, and one of the older women sitting in the corner with a pair of knitting needles, click, click, clicking away. Her gray hair is pulled back into a neat bun, and the wrinkles about her eyes remind Jon of a younger Old Nan from his childhood in Winterfell. _Not that Old Nan was ever young._  
  
The crone just nods and smiles, pointing towards the crib nearest the middle of the room before click clacking her needles together again.   
  
A dusting of black curls and wide violet eyes meet Jon with a gummy smile and happy gurgles as he carefully lifts the babe to his chest, murmuring soothing sounds as sticky fingers grab at his own curls. _This is love._ _  
  
_“Hello Lyarya. Today is a very big day.” Jon whispers in his daughters ear, though he's sure the two women in the room hear every word.  
  
\------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
“May I present to you the heir to the Seven Kingdoms!” Daenerys declares from her seat at the high table at the welcome feast.   
  
The Kingsguard open the two heavy doors to dining hall where the nobles from throughout the Seven Kingdoms have all gathered. Jon and Sansa carefully and slowly make their way towards the high table, Ghost a silent specter at Jon's side, lest anyone try to touch the princess.   
  
Years past, after Jon and Daenerys defeated the Others and claimed the Iron Throne as theirs, many new laws came to pass. Many lands had lost their lords and heirs in the wars that had plauged the realm in recent history, and it was agreed upon that the eldest born child, regardless of gender, shall inherit the lands and seat of their families, much like the practice of Dorne. Women would keep their family names upon marriage, and so would their children after them.   
  
Jon had readily agreed to adopt this practice within their own house too, meaning that the oldest of his future children would gain the throne after him, as despite consulting many healers across her many lands, Daenerys was still seemingly barren after the witch Mirri Maz Duur had cursed her in the red waste. At the time marriage seemed a long way off, the realm was just settling fro a devastating war and winter and there was much to do before the idea of taking a wife would be possible.   
  
Until he received that letter from Sansa, the one that left him feeling unsettled and caused him to head to Winterfell on dragonback.   
  
Moving to stand at the front of the high table, Jon's crown feels heavier than it has in years. He's met all, or nearly all of the nobles who stare back at him and his wife right now, but never has he had this many eyes on him at once. Not at his coronation, nor his wedding. Possibly during his time as Lord Commander, but he was fighting a nearly hopeless war at that time, and war changes things.   
  
“Presenting Princess Lyarya Targaryen, heir to the Seven Kingdoms!” Daenerys calls gleefully from behind them, raising her goblet in toast as their guests do the same.   
  
“To Princess Lyarya!” The Queens Hand calls out, followed by many more cheers of similar nature.  
  
Jon turns his head to take in the sight of his beautiful wife, holding their precious daughter. Sansa's red hair flows freely down her back, pinned in the Northern style with her circlet resting atop her head. The red and black of her dress makes her skin glow translucent, and Jon can't keep the thought of _mine, mine, mine_ out of this head when he see's her so proudly wearing his houses colors.   
  
He's grinning so broadly his cheeks ache.  
  
And he'll be damned if a crowed room of nobles will stop him from kissing his bloody wife as he see's fit.   
  
Sansa lets out a gasp of surpise when Jon pulls her so close, wrapping Lyarya safely between their bodies, as he wraps his fingers in the red gold flames of her hair.   
  
“Jon.” Sansa whispers, and he swears its a whine filled with the want he sees in her eyes.   
  
“Hush. Let them stare. You're my wife, and I'll kiss you when I please.” He says as he traps her full lower lip between his own.   
  
He gives her every single feeling he can muster in that kiss. All the love and lust, hurt and comfort, happiness and sadness he feels in his bones. If the crowd is reacting, Jon is no longer aware of it, because the whole focus of his world has zeroed in on Sansa and Lyarya, the little family he's made for himself, the bastard boy from Winterfell.   
  
When Sansa breaks the kiss, she's flushed and glassy eyed, a look all too familiar to Jon these days.   
  
“I love you, Jon Snow.” His wife whispers as she rests her forehead against his.  
  
“And I love you Sansa.” He whispers back, brushing his lips against her again, before looking at the sleeping babe nestled between their chests.  
  
All these things that seemed so far out of reach as a boy, love, marriage, a child to call his own, were here within his arms right now, and there was never a happier man as Jon is in this very moment.  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never meant to take so long in finishing this, but here it finally is! 
> 
> The princesses name is pronounced as Lee-are-yuh. 
> 
> At posting this is unBeta'd. So all mistakes are mine of course. 
> 
> I have lots of little ideas floating around for this universe that I intend to write at some point. Keep your eyes open for those!
> 
> Thank you all so much for your kudos and comments on this fic, I really appreciate it!

**Author's Note:**

> I know this probably needs some more editing, but if I don't post it now, I never will. 
> 
> 5/19/15: Big shout out to my wonderful friend jillypups for giving this the worlds quickest beta today!
> 
> Please leave comments! I love feedback!


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